COVERT : Spencer Reid (II)

33

"Do you remember when we talked about honesty?" Mary asks, holding the plastic bag full of the shredded letters.

I have to not roll my eyes. I wonder if she'd charge me more if I did. I wouldn't put it past her.

"I just..." I tell her. "It's not Him and I'm sure of it."

Maybe I wasn't being paranoid enough. I should have emptied my shredder, or expected Bastien to go through it should a letter arrive in the mail. Of course, he can't read the contents of what he found. I can't either. If I didn't have them committed to memory, then I wouldn't know what they said. Well, I sent photos to Luc through email so they exist somewhere out there, but I deleted them from my outbox so even I can't access them.

I have the most recent letter in my own lap.

Colette Marie Claude Morel

I was sad to hear of your disappearance. I wish you would return to me.

Your secret admirer

It strikes more fear into my heart than any other, but I have to sit here and take it. Lying to Bastien about an angry Unsub we haven't caught yet, and of course Spencer doesn't know but my boss does and that's what matters, and it's none of his business. I need a spreadsheet of my lies.

"If you will, I'd like to repeat some things," she says. There is no negotiating with her. "You have been receiving letters since November, though only a few of them. You reached out to an ex-boyfriend in the RCMP to enquire if it was the man who kidnapped you. Luc says it is not Him. You have not told Spencer even though this could be related to some other danger. You lied to Bastien about the culprit. Are you sure you believe it's not Him?"

"Okay no," I adjust myself in my seat. It's lumpy. I swear she has it filled with marbles instead of cotton stuffing. "I think it's Him, but I know it's not. I'm just overreacting."

"Do you typically shred evidence that could be pertinent when you overreact?"

I bite my tongue. I need ice. Why is it so fucking sweaty in here? She should charge me more and cool it. Or less, and keep it this warm. Whatever I'm paying now is the worst of both experiences.

"I told Spencer about therapy," I said. "Like, I'm clearly... I've changed so much. He doesn't get to make me afraid anymore, you know? I'm not scared of Him."

Mary blinks at me, "would you like to know what I think?"

Unless she is repeating me, she has never ended a sentence without a question. Or instruction I suppose, telling me what my homework assignment is. This is a question too, but it's an offer for more than that. Statements, and I can't handle statements. Then, finally, I shake my head no.

"Why is that, Cole?"

"Because I know what you think," I tick off mind-reading on the imaginary list of cognitive distortions. I shake my head back and forth. Tears start to brim in my eyes. "You don't think I'm crazy. But you think I'm helpless. Like, like you want to... I know you think therapy can help me, but that means I need help. You don't think I'm over it, even though it was half my lifetime ago. I have moved countries. By myself! I have two master's degrees. I went to fucking Oxford, okay? I can take down criminals without throwing up, and I can kiss my boyfriend, and I can even call him my boyfriend. Okay? So I know you think... you think I'm broken and that I'm not over it, but I am. I am fine."

Her face twitches. Just her eye, but I can feel my shoulders heaving. I stuff my letter and the bag full of shredded ones in my purse and stand up. I can't fucking do this. And she knows it. Because the thing about Mary, is that I don't actually think she thinks any of what I just said. She's a profiler's nightmare or maybe wet dream if they are really into puzzles. Mary doesn't think anything about me.

But I think things about me, things that I assume everyone else around me must be thinking too. And I'm not over it, clearly. It's not Mary who thinks I'm ruined. It's me.

Scratch that. I am ruined.

~~~~~

This is short, and devastating. Poor, poor Cole. Real rock bottom moment of it all.